God Carroll, can you please stop cross-pollinating from one forum to the other. What goes on there is there and what happens here is here.

But it is true. Most of what we understand as reality are merely epiphenomena operating in empty space.

Give Thomas Nagel's book Mind and Cosmos a whirl if you want to see a decent attempt to make sense of mind beyond Darwinian materialism.

Bribie has more than the colonial gothic feel to it, it also has a very strong evanescence of a South Pacific WW2 outpost. The so called Brisbane line, which was the point at which Australia would be defended against an expected invasion from the Japanese was in fact, the Bribie Line.
Fortifications along the Island were built with the purpose of being the front line of defence against a naval invasion.

They were the forts we played in as kids, used as markers for our surf spots. That history seeped into our bones and informed our day to day reality, although we weren't able to put it into context until much later.

In the next surfing life – which went to print last week – there is a piece in there from a phd philosophy professor. who also happens to be a surfer.

Im super interested to see what you think about it. it's way deep.

there's also a good interview with craig ando. who calls the wsl a bunch of redbull, wavepool robots ... it's a good read as well, and none of it is the usual puff surfing pieces we've become used to.

How many stiff-limbed Lynchian midget blabber-mouth Brizzo blow-ins on Bribie?

Well Al, at first I thought your use of Lynchian may be a reference to Wayne Lynch, but then I realised it was probably David. This was even more interesting and still more when I came across this definition:

If you ever need to explain to someone what Lynchian is, any of these answers would probably suffice:

It's like being dropped into the middle of someone else's dream.
It's like the real world, only people speak backwards and the sun rises at night and sets in the morning.
It's what avant garde would look like if it was personified as a sociopathic serial killer trying really, really hard to not to kill again (but failing pretty bad).
It's a woman's crimson lips, a highway at night; it's red drapes and a spotlit stage.
It's an inescapable small town in America.
It's eery detachment and a crushing blow.
It's ostensible -- you'll know it when you see it.

or maybe this:

AN ACADEMIC DEFINITION of Lynchian might be that the term "refers to a particular kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mundane combine in such a way as to reveal the former's perpetual containment within the latter." But like postmodern or pornographic, Lynchian is one of those Porter Stewart-type words that's ultimately definable only ostensively – i.e., we know it when we see it. Ted Bundy wasn't particularly Lynchian, but good old Jeffrey Dahmer, with his victims' various anatomies neatly separated and stored in his fridge alongside his chocolate milk and Shedd Spread, was thoroughgoingly Lynchian. A recent homicide in Boston, in which the deacon of a South Shore church reportedly gave chase to a vehicle that bad cut him off, forced the car off the road, and shot the driver with a highpowered crossbow, was borderline Lynchian. A Rotary luncheon where everybody's got a comb-over and a polyester sport coat and is eating bland Rotarian chicken and exchanging Republican platitudes with heartfelt sincerity and yet all are either amputees or neurologically damaged or both would be more Lynchian than not. A hideously bloody street fight over an insult would be a Lynchian street fight if and only if the insultee punctuates every kick and blow with an injunction not to say fucking anything if you can't say something fucking nice.